


Jos' eyes turn a shade darker when he looks at Joe... (why ever could that be?)

by j_obsessed



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: A bit more than mild..., Blame instagram, Canon Compliant, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mild Smut, Realization, ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_obsessed/pseuds/j_obsessed
Summary: Ok so. This photo. Would not leave me alone. Here's a link to the post. It's the second slide... *shivers* It's deviates a bit from canon, but suspend belief okay :') OH- and it gets a bit steamy toward the end ;)Hope you enjoy <3https://www.instagram.com/p/BqzAapnH2gm/?igshid=110o6djn84pab
Relationships: Jos Buttler/Joe Root
Comments: 9
Kudos: 21





	Jos' eyes turn a shade darker when he looks at Joe... (why ever could that be?)

Joe is so proud. So so proud. His boys, his team, they won the test series, 3-1.

3-1.

He’s a test-match series winning _captain_. He can’t believe the feeling. He’s tugged into photos, left right and centre, there are tears, hugs from his coaches, and team chants so loud, he thinks his ears are still going to be ringing next week when they play the West Indies. Jos hugs him especially tight, before Ben and Johnny and Mark and Chris collide into them. He barely has time to register that his PR team is posting all these photos on his Instagram, and he just manages to give them a suitable caption, before he’s hauled off by the entirety of _his_ team to celebrate _their_ win.

**

It happens almost immediately after the celebrations, when he’s still slightly hungover, and while he’s trying to hail a cab to get him the fuck home so he can collapse into bed. Jos had already left, and he’s really considering calling his ~~boy~~ friend (not his boyfriend, not at all, not even in the slightest, he has never ever considered the thought _ever_ ) to come get him.

But it’s abhorrently too late? early? for him to disturb Jos. He’d only just managed to wrestle himself out of the bar, and most of the team are still out partying. He’s startled out of his thoughts by a string of chimes from his phone. That’s odd. No one texts Joe, unless they have a death wish, or possibly are, in fact dying, _or_ , they’re Jos Buttler. (He swears, not a boyfriend.)

That’s all. He’s even more surprised to see that its not in fact, a message, but an Instagram DM from someone he just said goodbye to, like, less than five minutes ago.

**@stokesy: 3:43 am**

_Sent a post by @root66_

_damn does buttler even look at anyone besides u_

_shit_

_he’s giving u some serious bedroom eyes_

_damn_

_our wiki needs to keep himself in check_

Um. What? Needless to say, Joe is very very confused. So he unlocks the phone, and opens the chat. He’s looking at the post, which, is just a picture of the team, all very excitedly jumping into each other after their win which sealed the series in their favour. Joe is still very very confused.

He responds with a very eloquent;

**@root66 3:44 am**

_what the fuck are u on_

_and why are you messaging me i literally just left_

He clicks on the image and realises it’s got more slides. It’s only just been posted, a few minutes ago. Then. He notices a string of comments under the post he (his PR team, actually) made after their win.

‘OMG THE JOE/JOS ENERGY IS SENDING ME’

‘HOLYYYYYY DAMN THEY ARE SO FUCKING OMG’

‘GIRL HOW DID THEY ALLOW THIS TO BE POSTED THE SEXUAL TENSION IS LIKE THROUGH THE ROOF’

‘BRUH THE BEDROOM EYES JOS IS GIVING JOE IN THE THIRD PICTURE’

‘OKAY BUT IF SOMEONE LOOKED AT ME LIKE THAT WE’D BE IN A BEDROOM, WITHOUT CLOTHES, IN 0.2 SECONDS FLAT’

Obviously, _@stokesy_ the absolute fuckwit, (Joe rolls his eyes) has _liked all of them._

Then Joe realises it. Don’t be mean, give him a minute, its 3:45 am. And he’s hungover. And on an adrenaline rush, okay.

His eyes widen. What. The. Fuck.

The _what_ energy?!

_SEXUAL TENSION???!!!_

_Excuse_ me?!

He hurriedly swipes through, scanning the pictures till he sees it. And oh, by dear god. He wishes he hadn’t. (That’s a lie really, because Jos looks, well. He just _looks_.)

There is, in fact, a photo. And. It is, in fact, incriminating.

You see, the thing is, Joe and Jos _are_ actually boyfriends. And they _are_ , in fact, dating.

Well, sort of. They are, really, but they just won’t admit it to themselves.

They sit together at every team meeting. _Together_ might actually be an understatement, because they sit so damn close that Joe may as well be in Jos’ lap and his tongue may as well be on his neck- Mark’s words.

They play football together on the weekends, they’re together even when the rest of the team are out for lunch with their respective partners on their prized days off training.

They train together, they work together, they live a street apart and are constantly going out for dinner. Together.

They sleep over at the other’s place almost three nights a week, under the excuses of ‘I’m tired after training’ or ‘It’s too late for you to walk home.’ _Reminder_ , they live not more than a few yards apart.

Joe almost always shows up to practice with an ECB hoodie, that doesn’t have J.R. on it, but J.B.

They show up together to every game, because ‘He only lives a street away, what’s the point in finding two parking spaces,’ but neither mentions that as Captain and Vice, they have their own designated spaces.

No, they are just _friends_. That’s what they always say. No romantic or intimate or _other_ feelings here.

(Just for the record, Ben, Eoin, Mark _and_ Jonny all think they’re full of shit. One time, Chris kissed Jos on the cheek after a particularly splendid catch. Joe’s glare could’ve shot the best - _Jimmy Anderson is basically a league of his own, we don’t mention him_ \- English bowler with more accuracy than one of his death over yorkers. Jonny tells this story every single time Chris goes anywhere near Jos. Joe’s flaming cheeks and Jos’ beautiful smile directed at the captain say all there is to say about that.

Another time, Ben happened to be ‘holding onto Jos too long, it is unprofessional really,’ after the allrounder had managed to get the wicket of some batsman, with the help of a brilliant catch from behind the stumps. Joe actually sentenced him to _an hour_ training session against Mark in the nets, before pouting, and clinging onto the wicketkeeper’s waist for the rest of the day. Hypocritical, one might say. One who is _not_ Jos Buttler, because he just wrapped his own arms around Joe’s, tightly, and asked if they were still on for dinner that night…

Like Ben, Eoin, Mark _and_ Johnny say- ‘utter bullshit.’)

The image, startles Joe ~~a lot~~ a little. His eyes are drawn to Jos first of all, but he pretends that doesn’t happen. Ignores that. The rest of the photo, really is all nice and sweet. Joe’s clapping, pride and relief etching its way onto his face, and the boys are celebrating and cheering in the background. A cute picture, really.

But. _Not_ really. Because Jos is staring at him. Not like, a ‘fuck off I’m walking over here’ stare, or a ‘what a stuck-up idiot’ stare, no. One can only really describe it, as a proud, lusting, incredibly heated, ‘bedroom eyes’ stare. _Oh. So that’s what Ben meant._ Jos’ eyes are fixated on Joe’s face, a slightly darker shade than the usual ice blue; (no one can really tell that except for Joe, honestly) and normally, that wouldn’t really even mean anything, because winning matches does result in inexplicable things sometimes.

But. That’s not all. Jos’ tongue, is poking out, as if he’s gone to lick his bottom lip. And that, would usually mean _something_. Because Jos’ lip is plump and red and soft and his expression looks downright _ravenous._ Joe has to fan himself just from seeing at the look carved onto Jos’ face. Okay, so his ‘best friend’ is attractive. Sue him.

Joe kind of doesn’t really know what to do.

Somehow, he’s managed to get a cab, and is outside his apartment gate, fifteen minutes later. He’s still having a ~~major~~ mild crisis. He trudges up the stairs, and walks into the elevator. ~~Wait, elevator?? Joe’s place doesn’t have an elevator.~~ His body goes on autopilot, punching in the number he always does. Sleep slowly catching up with him, he exits the lift and tries to open the door. His key, however, does not want to fit. Joe honestly doubts he’s that drunk, so he tries a few more times, before the door opens. The key, is not in the lock. Joe is even more confused, when he looks up and sees Jos, with a very sleepy expression, staring back at him. He doesn’t even realise the wicketkeeper is shirtless (he does) or that his sweats are hanging really tantalisingly low across his hipbones (he really does notice). He also does NOT think about the _other_ _expression_ Jos could have on his face. He also definitely does NOT almost say so. (He catches himself, because he still has a filter.) Jesus Christ this is so not fair.

“Hi Joey. Do you want to come in?” Jos asks, smile just visible beneath the lines of sleep. He doesn’t question why Joe has shown up at _his_ apartment- (ohh, right, well that makes more sense… okay, maybe Joe is a tiny bit more drunk than he originally thought) at 4 am or anything, because this has happened before. And Jos has always been there with a comfortable bed ~~which they sometimes share~~ and really nice biceps ~~which Joe likes to kiss~~ and perfect cuddles ~~which are basically a biweekly tradition~~.

_Best friends my ass._

“Um, right, uh- I-” All that Joe can really think of is that goddamn photo. Jos just stands quietly, doesn’t push for an answer, they’ve known each other so long they can basically read the other’s emotions from an expression.

Despite his drowsiness, Jos would never give up an opportunity to let his eyes run over his best friend. You cannot blame him. The boy really is _so pretty_. Dirty blonde hair that’s usually haphazardly falling into beautiful doe eyes, long eyelashes, soft smile, sharp cheekbones and jaw, delicate frame. He can’t bring himself to look away.

Joe really can’t form any coherent words, squirming under the keeper’s gaze, so he hands his phone to Jos, and blinks. Jos unlocks the younger batsman’s phone with his thumb, apprehensively anticipating what he’s going to see. (Yep, Joe has Jos’ fingerprint stored, don’t tell Morgs, or Ben, or anyone. They will never let him live it down.)

Jos almost drops the phone when he sees the photo. It takes him a second, but, the shock on his face is unmistakable. “Oh my god, oh bloody hell, okay, shit, well _fuck_.” He hurriedly locks the phone and hands it back to Joe, terrified, staring at his feet, his hands, the wall, the door, anywhere but at Joe.

Joe, absolutely definitely lacking a filter, responds with, “Yeah, you do look like you want to fuck me.” Joe’s almost surprised at his own forwardness, and the worry in Jos’ eyes dissipates into a sort of _desire_ , but still guarded, blinking rapidly. It’s endearing, usually, it’s the other way around. (Lies, it’s quite mutual, one looks at the other, and then the other looks at one. They’re infuriating, really.)

And then Jos hears “You _should_.”

And then he thinks _fuck_ because there’s a smaller, warmer body against him, and there are lips on his, and a tongue in his mouth and a hand on his chest and fingers tugging tightly at his hair and it’s like _sensory fucking overload_. Joe’s tongue feels like the most perfect combination of virtue and sin, sliding sensually against his own. The younger tastes like the best mix of vodka, tequila and a little bit of whiskey. They’re both drunk, tipsy, intoxicated, maybe not off the alcohol, but off each other. Regardless, they’re entirely not coordinated enough to be exchanging saliva like this, but it’s _hot._ Because Joe is groaning and gasping into his mouth and his tongue is rolling against Jos’ and his hands are crawling across the keeper’s skin like a fucking _claim._

Jos tries to pull away, explain himself, do _something._ But Joe doesn’t let him get more than a millimetre away. His hands are insistent, possessive and tugging, and his mouth is relentless. Jos pushes the door closed and holds Joe, and himself against it. Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall at the floor, into a pile of melted pleasure.

Then, he remembers that he really does need to explain himself. Because, if they’re kissing like this, and this ends up being a one-night stand, Jos is going to end up breaking his own damn heart.

Fine. His best friend is beautiful, amazing, intelligent and gorgeous and perfect and he fits so well in his arms. And he really does love the younger batsman. All that cringy shit that he stays away from, comes flying at him full force. It’s a can of worms he ~~was terrified of opening~~ DID NOT want to open. ~~He does entertain the thought sometimes though. Like, every other day.~~

He pulls away, fast, has to get in a word or a sentence or something. Rubs a hand over his face before the stream of consciousness jumps out of his mouth. “Joe I’m so sorry, I didn’t even realise, I didn’t want it to happen like this, you just- I was just so proud of you and you just looked so fucking beautiful, you always do, and I really couldn’t help myself because all I could think about was taking you home and showing you how proud I was of you and I could not keep my eyes-”

“How long?”

On instinct, Jos coughs out “Seven inches maybe?”

Joe almost chokes on his own saliva. Jos looks mildly concerned.

“I meant, how long have you wanted that, jeez, men really do think with their dicks.”

Jos flames red. “Shut up. I have no self-control with you, you should know this.” He ducks his head, before whispering out his real response. “ _Ages_. Since you moved across me.”

“I’ve been living across you since I was born Jos.”

“Yeah. Since then.”

“Jos I hardly think _3-month-old you_ wanted to fuck me til I passed-”

Jos hides his face in Joe’s neck, mumbling a “shut up Root, you’re the one who jumped me…”

The younger just laughs, softly carding his fingers through the taller blonde’s hair. “Me too. I’ve wanted since then too.” There’s a ghost of a smile against his shoulder.

“I couldn’t stop myself staring. I tried, really. I tried so hard. I’m almost surprised there’s only the one photo. I was just- you’re always so beautiful, but, after the match, it was something else, okay. Morgs knows, but I stare at you in training all the time.”

It’s true, really. Because Joe trains with confidence and determination and Jos has always admired that about him. His tongue pokes through his lips as he bowls, bats, fields. Every move is precise and trained and practiced. He plays with tact and strategy rather than brute force. Though he’s not as built as some of the other guys, he’s muscled and toned and stronger than he looks. Jos often ends up thinking about whether the younger boy’s hands would tug insistently at his hair, or leave bruises across his hips. Whether he’d give Jos the control willingly, or whether he’d fight the taller blonde for it, them ending up in rough, aggressive, heated altercations on the floor before Jos _finally_ gets the upper hand and gives them what they both ~~want~~ need.

He’s had enough instances of Eoin telling him to ‘keep his eyes on the right balls’ and ‘send the ball through to fine leg, and stop thinking about Joe’s’.

Ben and Mark consistently rib him about missing all of his wicketkeeping catches when Joe’s at the crease; ‘Buttler stop staring at your boyfriend’s ass and catch the motherfucking edge or God help me I will take the gloves from you and do it myself,’ to which Jos rolls his eyes and pulls off a glove- only to flip the bird.

Obviously, Jos doesn’t tell Joe any of this. The younger batsman’s unaware nature is really a blessing.

“I stare at you in training too. You have nice muscles.” Jos can’t suppress the chuckle that leaves his throat as he wraps his arms around the younger in a much-needed embrace.

Cue the entire team’s (and the author’s) eyes rolling.

That, is the understatement of the year. Because Joe stares at Jos during training so much, it’s come to the point where he has to actually distance himself from the keeper so that he can focus. Morgs has literally had to pull him aside and lightly tap his cheek to get him to focus on warming up properly, or actually hitting the ball… or anything that isn’t the keeper’s toned thighs, or his biceps, or his _abdomen_.

Yes. _Abdomen_. Because Joseph Charles Buttler has the audacity, the nerve, the daring boldness, to warm up _without a fucking shirt_ sometimes. Joe can’t count the times on all his fingers and toes that he’s almost passed out into Ben at the sight. The ginger is always there to catch him and provide some very witty remark.

Jos trains in a mind of his own, focused, venomous, brutal. Disciplined, strategic, sort of like Joe, but with an air of carefree flair. He’s got tremendous power, grunts when he swings his bat particularly hard (making Joe _particularly hard_ ), sweat dripping down his biceps after particularly _exerting_ sessions. The amount of times Joe’s almost offered an _exerting session_ of his own, is not to be mentioned.

The boys always have a field day with it. Mark’s taken to trying, almost every session, to get Jos to pull off his shirt, much to the chagrin and jealousy ~~and occasional encouragement~~ of Joe. _If anyone should be convincing Mr Muscles over there to take his shirt off, it should be him, and him alone, in a bedroom, thank you very much._

Ben sometimes makes unnecessarily flirtatious comments toward Jos, that the keeper always returns with some equally vulgar response and a seductive wink. Despite his immediate reaction of a glare at Ben and a possessive stare at Jos, Joe ends up turning these responses into inexhaustible fuel for _very_ detailed daydreams.

Obviously, Joe doesn’t tell Jos any of this. Sometimes, the wicketkeeper’s oblivious nature is a godsend.

“I couldn’t stop staring at your expression. How I didn’t notice you staring like that, fuck I don’t know. You looked so, _predatory._ Like you wanted to _devour me whole._ ” Joe’s too fucking drunk for this. Sober, not-intoxicated, in-his-right-mind Joe, would _never_ admit this. 

There’s a hitch in Jos' breath, which Joe only just notices because he’s tucked so closely into the taller blonde’s chest. “Y-you what?”

On second thought, maybe he should admit these things more often. Because _that_ , was a really nice sound. “In the photo. Your tongue, resting across your lip. That’s what did it. God Jos you have no fucking idea, do you?”

“Idea about what?” Even despite the confusion, Jos’ eyes have turned that shade darker, and his teeth have subconsciously sunk into his lower lip. Joe shivers involuntarily.

“I don’t want you to stop staring. I don’t want you to apologise for looking at me like that. I want you to look at me like that. I’ve always been yours to look at like that.” Drunk Joe deserves an award really, because sober Joe, has been waiting for this for almost fifteen years. Remind Joe to send his PR team a thanks for posting that photo.

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that he and Jos have _the same PR team._ The team that records and posts photos for their _training sessions_ , their _team meets_. He really needs to send Phoenix MG some fucking flowers. Maybe a fruit basket. Or eight.)

Jos still hesitates. Doesn’t push Joe against the door or anything, doesn’t kiss him again, doesn’t do anything rash like that. He actually steps _back_ , stops touching him, with dark eyes, tongue flicking against his goddamn lower lip. Joe’s almost offended.

Until he realises that Jos is waiting for him to make a move.

To give a sort of consent.

He jumps into the taller boy’s arms, wrapping his legs around Jos’ hips. Jos catches him easily, hands hooking under the younger’s thighs, faces a breath apart. Joe leans down to kiss the cut of his jaw, with a whispered “Please. I want you. I always want you, I always have wanted you.” Not a second after he’s gasped those words against Jos’ skin, he’s pushed into the wall beside the front door. Face to face with Jos Buttler.

 _“Oh_. _”_

Joe will never ever get tired of seeing Jos like this. Flushed, hot, and _lusting._ Granted, he’s only actually seen him like this twice*******, (only once in real life) but the sight alone sends him into a state of euphoria. Ice blue eyes turned ultramarine, glazed over with a _predatory lust._

*******Twice, that he’s seen. Morgs, Ben, Mark and Jonny have seen this particular look from Jos (always, without fail, directed at Joe) more times than they should have. Quote from Morgs; ‘They eye-fuck each other more times in one day than Benny and I actually fuck in a week.’

Despite his clipped retort, Jos’ hands are unbuttoning his shirt immediately. It’s left hanging off him, as the older boy sinks his fingernails, and then his teeth, into Joe’s bare skin. The contents of the top of the bookshelf are the first items to hit the floor, as Jos sets Joe down softly, protectively, while mouthing at the younger’s collarbones and wrestling with his ripped jeans. It’s quite a contrast really, because it’s as if Jos is trying desperately not to hurt him.

But he kind of really wants Jos to hurt him. A bit.

Joe’s impatience wins, and he’s pushed Jos off him, removing both his shirt and jeans before launching himself into the taller boy’s arms again.

This time they fall into the sofa, Jos supporting himself on his hands, hovering close, but still too far from Joe’s lips. The younger tilts his head up, biting into the column of the keeper’s throat. Hard. Enough to leave a mark that’ll be visible above his cricket gear. Neither seems to give a singular fuck. Maybe it’ll shut Jonny up for once.

Momentarily, Jos loses his grip, only managing to catch himself a centimetre from the body below his. And then there’s not enough space between them to keep them apart. Jos drops down, biceps tensing, almost in a push up like movement, and flicks his tongue across the corner of Joe’s mouth. “I’m yours too.”

And that’s about as much as Joe can take, because Jos’ arms on a regularity, are too much for him to handle. But now he’s too close, and his scent is overwhelming, and his eyes are dark and his mouth is centimetres away. And he’s just confirmed what Joe has wanted to hear for a time that’s _way too long_ to be acceptable.

Joe rolls them onto the floor, Jos hitting the carpet with a groan just on the right side of pain. Joe’s thighs are straddled across Jos’ hips, arms gripping at his biceps, pressing the taller boy into the carpet, and kissing him breathlessly. Jos’ hands instinctively grip the younger’s thighs, resulting in a soft groan into his mouth.

He’s imagined this. More than he would readily admit. But the imagination doesn’t come close to the real thing. Not even within range.

Joe’s lips are plush, and bitten raw. His hair is messier than usual, thanks to Jos’ fingers.

There’s a smirk of pride on Jos’ face, which contorts into a face of pure _pleasure_ as Joe rolls his hips down. The younger smiles, utterly too sunshiny and innocently beautiful for the position they’re currently in. Stripped, and utterly debauched from the ~~still unresolved~~ sexual tension.

Something Jos said earlier sticks out to Joe. And he _wants_. So he says, “Show me how proud you are?” And Jos can’t do anything but give him what he wants.

He’s never really been able to do _anything_ but that. Joe asks him to keep for a match, he’s there. Joe asks him to train, he trains. Joe asks him to bat out the match, he does. Joe asks him to fuck him (in his dreams), and he does. By fucking god, _he does_.

Jos lets a smirk grace his features again. “How do you want it babe? What d’you want me to do _to you_ , I’ll give you whatever you want sweetheart, just gotta tell me hm?”

Joe cannot form a single word aside from Jos’ name, because the taller has taken to letting his fingers crawl over the flesh of his hip, digging into the jutting bone, wrapping his fingers around his length, while sucking at the skin over Joe’s collarbone.

At the lack of response, Jos stops his _evil_ ministrations. “How about I use my hands first, fuck you open slowly. Then I’ll hook your legs over my shoulders and fuck you how I _know_ you want, _fuck_ it’ll be so hot, god baby _please_ let me take you to bed”

The last sentence comes out utterly _broken,_ with more than a few choked moans between fragments, as Joe’s busied himself with gripping Jos’ shoulders, nails leaving biting indents, to try and ground himself. The younger barely registers anything after ‘your legs over my shoulders,’ his imagination providing him with some particularly filthy images he desperately wants to try out. A wrecked sound escapes his throat as his hips involuntarily jolt downwards, body longing for more friction, more contact, more of _Jos_.

He falls forward, bracing himself with his hands beside Jos’ head, just as Jos tightens a hand in his hair to pull him down, and to turn his head roughly to the side. Then his neck comes into contact with sharp canines, and Joe can’t hold himself up anymore.

Jos catches him, and shoves him into the carpet, teeth relentlessly marking his skin. “Is that what you want? For me to throw you around? Push you into the mattress?” Joe’s responding whine should really be enough of a clue.

Not to mention, they have talked about this, maybe not with each other in mind (bull-fucking-shit), but they have. There are some real benefits to being long-term friends who pine over each other for a decade or so…

Jos is a goddamn tease. “I need words gorgeous. You’ve gotta tell me what you want, so I can give it to you hm?”

The bastard. As he says that, his left hand drags up the side of the younger’s right calf, blunt nails scratching lightly against the side of his thigh, before trailing back down. The whole encounter has goosebumps lifting on Joe’s skin under Jos’ lingering hands. The younger still can’t speak to save his life. Jos knows him well enough that he doesn’t have to.

Jos repeats the mischievous movement on the other thigh. But this time, as he’s moving back across the younger’s left calf, he grips the muscle with a firm hand, and wraps the limb over his shoulder. Joe can feel the oxygen evading his lungs, leaving a scorching burn in its place. Jos presses soft kisses to his shin as he gets used to the stretch in his hamstrings.

Jos leans down to kiss him, and, true to his nature, always determined to make Joe’s life incredibly hard, manages a perfect, fluid body roll, hips catching against each other, as Joe’s fingers grip at the carpet mercilessly. “Come now love, if you’re going to dig your nails into something, it may as well be my back. Hold tight.”

Jos carries him all the way to his room, and then Joe’s deposited onto a soft bed he knows all too well. He’s going to go into cardiac arrest. He really is trying to breathe, it’s just not working out for him, it’s cool.

“Need a hand?” Is Jos’ very flippant observation. Joe just rolls his eyes.

“No thank you, I’m quite alright.”

“If you’re sure, but I’m inclined to think that the next time I ask if you ‘need a hand’ you’ll say yes.”

That’s. That’s not fucking fair. Joe needs a minute. He’s always known Jos has a dirty mouth. And that he’s good at flirting, because, well, he’s Jos. He’s watched him pick up guys at bars with less than a whole sentence, and he’s seen him flirt with Ben ( _so_ not the time for jealousy right now). But still. It’s not fair.

Jos clearly notices that he’s struggling, because he leans closer, with a soft hand at the side of his neck, and brings him into another kiss. Joe’s hand intuitively lays over the keeper’s, and tightens the grip. Jos’ eyes flare with recognition.

“I’d really like to see how you look completely and utterly fucked out, sprawled across my bed and covered in sweat, among other things,” he takes a step back, once again letting Joe decide what he wants, “if you’re interested?” That alone sets something off in the younger.

Jos’ thigh comes to press against him, and he can feel his heart in his throat. “ _Please._ ”

“Brilliant.” There’s a feral grin on Jos’ face, eyes _that_ shade, and canine poking into his already swollen bottom lip.

God. Joe is so fucking _gone._

**

“So, was seven inches enough?”

“Seven inches my fucking ass, don’t you dare try and pull the modesty card.”

Jos suppresses a laugh with a cheeky smile. Joe pokes his cheek. 

“And given the fact that you’re carrying me to breakfast, and will be carrying me to training, I think you very well know the answer to that question.”

Jos’ smug grin warrants Joe’s kiss. He _did_ do a good job. 


End file.
